


Gentle Sin

by DaftPunk_DeLorean



Series: Unadulterated Sadness and Angst [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bucky Feels, Clint Feels, M/M, these two really got fucked over, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 15:21:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6120760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaftPunk_DeLorean/pseuds/DaftPunk_DeLorean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Clint…” Dammit, now his throat was getting tight again, and Bucky swallowed hard three times, tired of how this went, every damn time. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I fucked up, I’m sorry I fucked you over, I’m sorry I ruined the best thing that ever happened to either of us, and I’m sorry I didn’t get back there in time.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gentle Sin

It was easy to lie back on the grassy lawn under the sprawling wisteria vine that always reminded him of Clint. It was almost bullshit, how cliché the damned thing was, sitting here bold as balls, choking the life outta some poor tree while everyone oohed and aahed over how fuckin’ pretty it was. You know how those wisteria are; getting into everyone’s shit, impossible to kill. Breathtakingly beautiful. Clint’s favorite shade of ridiculous purple. Bucky didn’t glance over, staring stubbornly at the clouds in the sky.

“Nice day,” Bucky said softly. His voice was rough, but it had been rough since… well, _since_. Just didn’t have much to say to anyone. Ever. He didn’t get an answer, but he expected that.

“Look… I know I fucked up, I shouldn’ta left you alone there, you got every right to rip my ass,” Bucky began, and it sounded stupid and awkward, like he’d practiced it in front of a mirror. Which he had, hadn’t he? No use in denyin’ it. And Clint would know, because Clint knew Bucky. Knew every tense line of muscle, every strangled nightmare, every gasping breath of ecstasy… every roar of anger… Bucky huffed in frustration and threw his arm over his eyes, his banged-up watch Clint gave him on their first anniversary glinting in the sun.

“Goddammit Clint, you know I’m no good at this apology shit, okay? I didn’t want us to end, all right? And I know I got no right to think you’d ever want me back in any universe, but I can’t fuckin’ stand it! I can’t fuckin’ stand that you might think I didn’t love you more than my own goddamned soul, okay, because I did. I _do_. Damn lot of good it does me now, since I never fucking said it when it mattered,” he blurted out into the stony silence.

Bucky heaved a heavy sigh and sat up, not even knowing why he came here today, not knowing why he _kept_ coming here, week after week. All he was doing was torturing himself. Nothing would change, and he fucking knew it. He tugged at a vine of wisteria, wrapping it around his finger and glaring at it, offended that it had the audacity to bloom on so cheerfully with its careless perfume and frilly petals, acting like the world was a good place and not a fucking pit filled with shit and hate. He broke off a blossom and stared at it a minute, still not looking over, and his chest felt like someone was sitting on it. It did every time he came to this place.

“Clint…” Dammit, now his throat was getting tight again, and Bucky swallowed hard three times, tired of how this went, every damn time. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I fucked up, I’m sorry I fucked you over, I’m sorry I ruined the best thing that ever happened to either of us, and I’m sorry I didn’t get back there in time.” 

Bucky sighed, and scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand, finally looking over at Clint, where he sat in his wheelchair, as always. Bucky draped the wisteria blossom over the armrest of the wheelchair so Clint could smell it, and snorted a humorless laugh, because Clint would have called him a sentimental idiot, and told him to get a fucking grip on himself, and hey, grab him a cup of coffee while you’re up, and for fuck’s sake, don’t put whiskey in it this time, asshole.

Bucky got up clumsily and kissed the top of Clint’s shaved head briefly, just a feather-light touch of his lips. There was no response, as Clint stared at nothing with dead eyes, his bony body with its atrophied muscles bundled warmly in a thick cardigan, a quilt tucked over his lap. There would never be a response again, no matter how many scars them damned surgeons put on Clint’s skull, trying to piece him back together after what those fucking freaks did to him in the attack. 

That was maybe even the worst part of it. It wasn’t aliens or supervillains or mutated robots that did this in the chaos of battle. It was a gang of ordinary men with a little too much booze and prejudice running hot in their blood. 

Faggot and pervert, they’d called Clint, when they’d surrounded him after Bucky had left him alone following an argument. They called him a monster, as they bashed him against the pavement. A fucking _monster_. Not Clint. Maybe Bucky, but not Clint. He was good and pure and Bucky didn’t fucking deserve him, but if Clint heard him say that, he’d just tell Bucky to shut the fuck up, smiling that half-cocked smirk of his as he kissed the frown from Bucky’ lips. 

“Anyway… I just wanted to see you,” Bucky said softly, grazing his rough fingers over Clint’s forearm, then his hand. “I always did love you, you know. Never meant for any of this shit to happen.” He finally slung his jacket over his shoulder, poking at a few stray twigs with his toe, letting the silence carry on.

“See you around, man,” he murmured, walking away, the same way he did every time he visited. Clint stayed unmoving in his chair where the nurses had parked him to get a little sun, and showed no signs of recognition in any way. And he would be the exact same way in a week, when Bucky would inevitably find his way back to Clint’s side for another one-sided conversation. It was just a matter of time before Clint’s body caught up with the fact that his brain was already dead.


End file.
